Uncharted: Nephilim's Weapon
by Hemlock
Summary: T for language and scenes. After a seemingly dead end, Nate discovers a new lead, this time in form of Elena's new assignment. Incidentally, it will save a friend. A thousand pardons for being late! Please don't hate for that...!
1. Introducing Grace Dalton

_You have no antiquity of history, and no history of antiquity_.

- an Egyptian priest to Solon

* * *

-Chapter 1-

Introducing Grace Dalton

I put away a laser pointer, voluminous copies of printouts, books, and finally a prized possession for the last three years: a tattered, leather-bound book, its pages covered with countless notes and half-baked thoughts. Staring at it for a moment, I then let it fall inside my bag, along with everything else. I shook my head and mentally shook the sandals of my feet off the dust of this place. I vowed never to return.

Walking down the hall, someone could have greeted me, but I was operating on autopilot. All I could think of was a certain corner shop that catered to caffeine addicts and chocolate muffins. I hastened my steps outside of the hall. Arriving at my car, I placed everything in the backseat and within a minute, I was out of the university compound.

I found a parking spot beside the corner shop, took out as many coins as I could from my bag, and fed the meter. It was twenty past ten in the morning, so there were not as many customers as it could have been. I entered. Good, there was nobody but the barista.

"Hey! How did the proposal go?" the barista asked with a cheerful face. I chose to ignore that cheerfulness and sank my ass on a stool nearest to the entrance.

"Give me an espresso, Paul," I said instead, reaching for a saucer and helping myself to a chocolate muffin from the cake stand. Paul's expression changed immediately. He gave me a consoling smile and readied my order. The sharp scent of coffee filled my nostrils and eased my nerves somewhat. He placed my espresso before me and some cream beside it.

Paul stared at me staring at the espresso cup. I was not in the mood to divulge my defeat, so I slowly began eating the muffin, painfully aware of the fact that Paul was waiting for me to say something. The entrance _dinged_ once, signalling a customer's entrance, and he had to turn at the customer. It left me free to drop the facade of an impenetrable fortress and really let reality sink in.

_Damn it all! Why in the world would I pursue something as inane as this?_ I took another bite of the muffin. _The only person I can blame is me... and _him. _Damn, damn!_

"If you really hate the muffin, miss, may I suggest the scone instead?"

I roused myself from within my reveries and recovered my senses. The voice beside me was not Paul's voice. Paul had this timid tone, whereas this voice was almost haughty if not for a hint of humour. Right now, I had in my hands what appeared to be the remnants of a muffin. It appeared to have been crushed – within my fists. I slowly turned my palms downward and let the crumbles fell onto the shiny counter surface.

I reached for a box of tissue I knew to be somewhere behind the counter, and found it. Wiping my hands clean off the chocolate residues, I decided to stay quiet. Paul was busy at the other cappuccino machine, at the far end of the counter. I did not care to look at the person beside me.

"Your proposal was very interesting. I'm sorry it didn't turn out as you might hope it would be."

_What is this, some kind of a new pickup line? It's not even happy hour yet,_ I thought, irritated. "I believe I should leave now, excuse me." Placing six dollars under the untouched espresso cup, I stood up.

"You just don't have all the pieces yet; that is why your proposal was rejected."

_Dickhead doesn't know when to give up, does he now? _I shook my head and walked toward the exit.

"What you dug up in China was only a piece of the bigger story."

That made me freeze. "I believe I have no idea what you are talking about, mister," said I after a few seconds of hesitation. Once again I tried to turn toward the exit.

"Don't play hard to get, Heather Wickett," the man said, drawling the name so eloquently it effectively stopped me in my tracks. "What you found there was nothing compared to what I can offer you."

I took a deep breath, turned on my heels and faced this impossible cretin for the first time.

The cretin turned out to be a blonde-haired man with a deep scar that ran from his left forehead down to just above his high cheekbones. Brown eyes stared back at me from behind frameless glasses. Expensive but well-worn metal grey suit fit his wide but slightly slumped shoulders. Altogether the image he was projecting should have melted any woman on sight, but I found it all to be slightly... disturbing. Was it because his shoes did not fit quite well with the rest of his wardrobe? Or could it be his too-straight nose?

"Who are you?" I questioned.

He shrugged his arms in a friendly gesture, smiled _too_ amicably. "Just a concerned soul."

"Or a person of concern," I smartly replied, with a little too much vinegar in it. "Only you're a concern not to me, but to the police, maybe. Who the hell are you?" I repeated in a louder voice.

Paul came from behind the counter. "Is there anything the matter, miss-"

"No, Paul," I quickly cut him short, finally turning around. "Nothing's the matter. I was just leaving."

As I was about to push the door, two burly men entered and blocked it. Their stares said it all: sit or we'll break a part of your body. I turned to the counter and saw that Paul was being restrained by two more men. He tried to resist, but one of the men swiftly served him a punch in the gut. He doubled over, and the next punch met his right temple. Paul collapsed behind the counter.

"Paul!" I screamed and ran forward, but four hands found my arms and held me in place. "Get your hands off me, you stinking brutes!"

As I struggled, the blonde man rose from his seat and walked to me. "You just never listen, do you?" He grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. "If you would just listen, none of these would have happened."

"Let him go, dickhead!" I struggled again, squeezing my fingernails into my captors' arms. They merely grunted at the discomfort but did not let go. "What do you want?"

Blonde released my chin. "Now, was that so hard?"

"Limp as your dick," I spat at him. Suddenly, my world went dark for the briefest moment, accompanied by stars, and returned. Blonde had just slapped me. In additional to being a dickhead, I chalked him up as a compulsive hitter and probably preferred women who never say no to him.

"I want your story," he said, this time with none of the charming front he put up just now. His good looks fell away like a mask, the beast revealed bare. "So give me the damned book or else."

I raised an eyebrow. "Now, was that so hard?" Giving him a look I normally reserved for idiots, I shook my still restrained wrists. "Let me go."

He gave me a distrustful look. "Please, you've got two men behind me and two men behind the counter. How can I escape?"

Blonde made a motion with his head and the burly men unwillingly released my sore wrists. I nodded 'thank you' and pushed my hands inside my bag. At which the four men suddenly whipped out their guns and pointed at me.

"All right! If you're so untrusting, let me at least take out whatever it is slowly!"

Blonde raised his hand, but none of the guns disappeared. I let out an exasperated sigh and pulled out my book slowly. I lifted it up. Blonde stepped closer, but just as quick I pulled it out of his reach.

"Let Paul out first."

Blonde's expression darkened. "Don't toy with me, Miss Dalton."

"I don't, and I never intend to. But let Paul out first. Whatever you want to do, you can do it with me. Paul isn't involved."

Blonde gave it a short consideration, then motioned at the two behind the counter. They pulled Paul up and carried him to the back entrance. They went out for a while, and returned without Paul. I nodded, satisfied.

"You're good to your word. So will I." I threw him the book, which he snatched mid-air. Blonde then opened the first few pages slowly as his lackeys by the door continued to stare me down.

"I hope you find the book satisfactory. Don't you think it's time to let me go?" I reminded him.

Blonde laughed a very unattractive laugh. "It's not that easy, Miss Dalton. I want the rest of the story. Someone also wanted you to come along. Grab her."

I was done pretending. It was my turn to whip out mine. And I had two of them both in my very amply supported bra. I had a detonation button on each nipple and all I had to do was pinch them.

The looks on their faces when they saw the contents of my bra twinkling back at them were priceless.

I bet Nate have wet dreams like these. And just as explosive.

* * *

_Next chapter is UP! Go Forth!_


	2. Nathan Drake and Other Mistakes

-Chapter Two-

Nathan Drake and Other Mistakes

* * *

"Well! Sunshine's finally up!"

I hate that voice. Still, it could be worse.

I opened my eyes and saw him: the one man I could never say no to. Even if it meant I'd lose my neck. I held up a weak hand and flipped him. He made a pained expression that really meant 'I know you want it, too.'

I massaged my breasts. They still felt rather sore, and I slowly sat up in my bed. It was probably late afternoon, the air curiously cool. I noticed his stare did not waver, but they were not trained upon my eyes. "Stop staring or I'll put a stick between your eyes."

He shrugged, twinkling happy eyes not moving away. "Some women find it flattering."

"I'm not _some_ women," I shot back. A sharp pain raced down my spine and I grimaced. Before I could say no, he was already beside me.

"I should say stop moving, but I know you well," he said, opening his palm. Two pills lay in his palm. I took them without question and downed them with a glass of water he handed me. "So tell me, do you really have to leave a crater anywhere you go?"

I smiled as the painkiller worked its effect. "Do you ever ask yourself the same question, Nate?"

Smirking, he rose from my bed and walked across the room and stopped at the French window. "Ditto," he said nonchalantly. "But really, poor Paul."

"She paid us enough," I mumbled. "She should have known better."

"Not to blow up an innocent coffee shop." I shrugged. "Oh, hey. She's here." He padded toward the door and opened it.

A woman entered. She was of my build and height, but while her hair was a charming shade of chestnut, mine was strawberry blond. At a glance, we could have been twins. A closer scrutiny however would prove otherwise. When she saw me on the bed, she exclaimed aloud and shook her head in a most distressed, British manner. "Oh, Grace, I'm ever so sorry! I should have never asked of you – any of you – to do this on my behalf!"

I waved a weak hand at her. "Heather, you should know what I'd do for a friend. It looks worse than it really is, actually. Come sit here."

Heather sat as gently as she could near me and touched my forehead and my sides and everywhere else, concern all over her tender face. Watching Nate's face contort into a mischievous smirk, I did not have to guess what was running amok in his brain – if he had any.

But it was this particular contradiction that – I must admit – fascinated me. He looked every part a brainless, beach bum, sexist pig, with a less-than-innocent stare and a know-it-all grin. However, present him a relic, and he could tell, in a glance, where it came from, how it came to be, its purpose, and _when_ in history it was made. If you leave him with it just a minute longer, with pen and paper, he could probably write you an essay fit for a professorship thesis. Why he chose what he did for a living remained one of life's mysteries.

But right now, he was just a pig. I narrowed my gaze and Heather mistook it for a grimace. She slowly squeezed my hand in hers. It was a sisterly notion, and it warmed me up to her that I had to smile. "How's Paul?" I asked, hoping to hear good news about the only person I never wanted to decimate to pieces.

"Paul's doing fine," Heather said. "I visited him just now: the doctor will discharge him this evening. He also said Paul's suffered nothing more than cuts and bruises, and scarred pride."

"Is he pressing charges?" Nate asked with a grin directed at me.

"For what?" She rolled her eyes when she realised it was a joke. "Oh, Nathan, I can never understand you. Not even when you explain to me those amphorae! Really, how do you put up with him?" Heather turned to me, her eyes quizzical.

"I don't," I simply replied.

"No, Nathan," Heather turned to Nate, "he never said anything about pressing charges. I'll pay for the rebuilding and the refurbishment. Besides, insurance would cover it. I already arranged for it."

Nate twinkled at the idea. "Can I blow up my house and have you 'arrange' for my insurance, too?"

"And have you hanging on my neck? I'd rather not. Now," she said, looking at her watch, "I have to leave for the airport; Sullivan is waiting for me downstairs. I can never think both of you enough. Now I can go back to the dull life of an academician!"

She gave me a kiss on the cheek and shook Nate's hand most formally, much to his dismay. We watched her leave. "She doesn't seem to be very upset on losing the proposal," I remarked, standing up. Nate offered his arm but I smiled my rejection.

We both heard a car honked downstairs. "Had to be Sullivan," Nate said. "And, yes, she has no reason to be _upset_. She did _want_ us to foil it, and go for this." He pulled out a book, similar to what I gave Blonde for bait.

I chewed on that for a long moment. Heather had come to us a nervous wreck, believing someone was after her. A month ago, her dig site in China found something major. However, it was not that discovery that made the news; it was the dig site collapse which killed almost the entire archaeology team member. She escaped only because she had an archaeology symposium in Henan within the same week.

Amidst Heather's ramblings, we managed to gather some information. She believed that the collapse was intentional, unlike the reported landslide seen in the news. Someone, she suspected, tried to hide what was that they had uncovered. When Nate pushed for more information, she gave him only a photo file. Nate as usual had fallen silent, refused to share with anyone what it was, but told that he would agree to help Heather.

"What was so important about the photo?" I asked him.

"Hmm?"

"That photo Heather gave you from before. Does it mean anything?"

A sudden change in his expression said enough: it meant _everything_. He wandered away from my side, grabbed a cold drink from the mini fridge, and drank it down slowly. I sat myself on a surprisingly comfortable ottoman in the balcony. Eventually he spoke:

"There are a lot of creation myths around the world, but one is familiar to all: A Supreme Being creates mankind from clay, breathes life and the human worships the Supreme Being as a token of thanks. Slowly, though, as human multiplies, they forget the Supreme Being and they descend into sin and debauchery. Seeing this, the Supreme Being decides to wipe them off the face of the earth. Weapon of choice? Flood."

"This sounds like Sunday school to me," I interjected. He shook his head.

"No, in fact it's older than the biblical accounts."

"Are you saying the Bible plagiarized the Great Flood?" I asked with the widest smile.

Nate raised one brown eyebrow. "Anyway," he went on, obviously refusing to debate on that matter, "there is only one who will be told of the inevitable disaster, and is asked to save everyone in his family by building a huge ship."

"Nate," I exasperatedly said, "do wake me up when you _finally_ arrive at the point."

At this, he was positively, lasciviously leering. "I do have that memory of you, but you intend to wake up whenever I arrive at point. But onward. Within the vessel, this person remains safe from the disastrous flood until one day the flood subsides. The end."

"You told me everything I already knew and nothing else. I could reach inside that drawer and quote you word by word the same thing."

"The Gideons only provide New Testament bibles, very rarely the Old Testament."

"Your point, please?" I was very close to flinging an innocent crystal vase sitting on the small table beside me.

"You read it from the Bible. The Ojibwa knew it from the story of Nanabozho. Civilisation's consummate bookkeeper, China, has it recorded in the chronicles of Sima Qian. In Lithuania, there's a story about the god Pramzimas and a discarded nutshell that became the ship for flood survivors. The Babylonians thought the great flood happened every 1200 years because the gods see it fit to stem human overpopulation. According to a Cameroonian tradition, a goat saved two siblings from the great flood because the girl allowed it to lick some flour she was grinding. Go figure."

All this while, his eyes shone excitedly. His hands came alive, wildly gesticulating and waving as he described the stories to me. I had a hard time containing my smile, seeing an adult behave like a ten-year-old boy. However, as he went on, I realised the brevity of his facts. All over the world, similarities in stories like this had always been in the back of my mind. It's like a nagging fact that we all refuse to acknowledge, and now, as Nate had so vividly described before me, the facts could not be denied.

"Intriguingly, some of these stories come from a period where the Bible itself is not yet written, neither is its predecessor, the Hebrew book Genesis."

"So, again I ask, is the Bible plagiarising from myths?" Seeing Nate frown, I quickly said, "Okay, okay, I get the point. What then? What does this have to do with Heather's photo?"

As an answer, Nate took out his mobile phone and after tinkering with it for a few moments, gave it to me. On the screen was the picture Heather gave him a few days ago. Instead of enlightened, I was confused.

The picture showed a small square dug into the ground. A hand held a brush a few inches off the hole. Within the hole was something greenish. It looked like bronze to my eyes. It also had some deep scratches upon it. "Nate," I said, giving up, "either you tell me or let me stare uselessly at this."

"That's what Heather's team found in Henan, China."

I zoomed in the photo. Now the scratches made more sense, although what it could mean was still miles away. The 'scratches' were Chinese characters. Very old Chinese characters. I told him so.

"You're right," Nate said, beaming at me. "It's known as shell and bone script, used in fortunetelling. The earliest Chinese also used it as decorative purposes on various bronze objects. That is a bronze stele."

"What's it say? The characters, what do they mean?"

"Well, so far I could not say because my Chinese is rather limited, not to mention regarding this kind of script. But I know somebody who devotes his entire life on this matter." He threw a jacket to me and winked. "Are you hungry for Chinese?"

-o-

Nate's friends usually fall on the more disreputable side. Yes, even Sullivan, in my opinion. So I was pleasantly surprised when he stopped outside of a well-known and expensive Chinese restaurant. "He's waiting in the private room at the back," he said as he finished talking to his mobile. "Don't want to keep the man waiting."

Climbing up the stairs, we were ushered into a small yet immaculately furnished room by a tiny lady whose waist must have been as wide as my neck. A small round table was at the middle, already packed with small dishes, from which enticing smells rose and filled the room. The usherette nodded at us, saying, "He will be with you in a short while; he's only getting ready upstairs." Then she withdrew from the room.

I found my stomach rumbling at the sight of the food. "Nate, can I eat that now? I feel so very hungry."

Nate shrugged and picked up a pair of chopsticks as I followed suit. We both tried the eggroll and I moaned in delight at its tasty filling. At this moment, Nate's friend chose to come in and smiled at us.

"Usually I don't condone such noises in my restaurant," he said. Nate stood up and shook his hand. I however was slower – my mouth was filled with two eggrolls. "Please! Don't stop, miss, enjoy your food," he added, gesturing at me to stay seated. "Now, let's eat first, then we'll come to your business later, shall we?"

I practically wolfed down half of the banquet, and afterwards, endlessly thanked our gracious host who thought that a starving woman was 'a delight to see' on the table. "That way I know my cooking is way up there," he said with a smile.

During our somewhat leisurely dinner, I learned that the rather tall Chinese man was a professor and also the owner of this wonderful establishment. His name was Daniel Yip and he had been a restaurateur for about five years. "Now," he turned to Nate, "about that little thing you showed me last week. It's obviously a relic."

"By now you should know where it came from, I suppose?" Nate asked him in all seriousness.

Yip shook his head. "That was bad luck. You know, back in my days, it was better. You either get along with the local triad or get some of your extremities cut off. Back to that relic, I'm not actually sure if it meant what it seems to be."

"Seems to be?" I echoed him. "It's a bronze stele, and an ancient one at that."

"Ancient, yes, stele, no."

Nate seemed surprised. "Well, if you want us to keep guessing into the morning..."

"It's a cenotaph," Yip said, smiling at my confused looks. I turned to Nate who displayed an enlightened expression.

I hate them. "All right, now I feel like in a bridge game."

Another surprised look from Nate. "I thought you don't play."

"I never do; that's why I feel like so. What in the world is a cenotaph?" I turned to Yip.

Yip took out a printout the size of a legal pad. It was the reprint of Heather's photo. "The word comes from the Greek language, _kenotaphion_, meaning simply empty tomb. Mankind loves leaving something for history to ponder, so it's really little wonder to see cenotaphs litter the world over. Now here," he pointed to a group of characters he had circled in red ink, "are very interesting. These characters mean 'creator of the three gates has died'."

"It can't be -"Nate interrupted, but Yip held out an authoritative hand to cut him short.

"Don't steal my thunder, Drake," he said, smiling. "Have you ever heard of the story of the great flood, my dear lady?"

_Oh no, not again,_ my expression must've said. Yip did not miss that and he turned to Nate. "Nate, you did not, did you?"

"Well, I might have been a little – but I never told her about the Chinese deluge story."

My eyes widened. "There's a Deluge story in ancient China too?"

"Ah, so my chance of exhilarating my new audience is still good. Very well, I shall begin." Yip actually rubbed his hands.

"When China was still young, there came a flood. This was no normal flood because it lasted for years. Shun was the ruler, who saw this and tasked several officials to tame the waters, but they were unsuccessful and were executed. Shun then came to Yu and gave him the responsibility to stop, or at least tame the flood. Yu saw the failures of his predecessors and decided that dykes were not the way to end the watery problem. What he did then was to dig into the land, making new river channels that would lead the excess waters back into the sea. Now that, my lady, is the dry historian version. My favourite, however, is the apocryphal version."

"Or also known as the fairytale version," Nate said with a snort.

"But it's also more descriptive," stressed Yip.

"How is being helped by a turtle and a dragon can be 'descriptive', Dan?" Nate argued jokingly.

"Because," Yip pounced upon that argument triumphantly, "_it's described upon the cenotaph_!"


	3. The Winner's Curse

Chapter 3  
The Winner's Curse

-0-

_Author's Notes: _There are several kinds of auctions, and English Auction is the most common one. Bidders try to outdo each other in terms of value. A bidder is always in danger of getting the Winner's Curse, an expression so coined because one might overpay for an item instead of getting a good bargain. On an unrelated note, Le Marais is one of the more historic parts of Paris. Plenty of museums there, including one that was formerly two hotels. The museum in this chapter is roughly based on that particular one. The market* mentioned here does exist, and its name originated from a local 17th century orphanage whose children are required to wear red uniforms at all times. Cafe Charlot exists, too, but it may or may not serve tea in a teapot. They do, however, serve cheeseburger.

0-0

"I can't believe this," Nate uttered out, cursing aloud several times.

It was a week after our meeting with Yip. The days that followed saw Nate going out late in the morning and coming back _after _I came back. Not sure what he was up to, but one thing was certain; he was never home drunk. I woke up each morning to find the table in the living room spotted with coffee rings.

I, on the other hand, had entertained two options: go back to Italy and disappear into its underbelly, or enjoy my stay in sunny California. Tomorrow was to be my last day in California, and to my little surprise, my email inbox was up to the gills with requests.

"Who's that?" I asked him across my box of lemon chicken and over the laptop screen. Today was a rare event where Nate did not go out; instead he called for a lunch delivery to Yip's restaurant.

With a childlike enthusiasm Nate exclaimed: "That's Elena!"

I groaned, but fixed my stare at the plasma TV. Sure enough, there was the perky blonde with a pony tail. However, she was not dressed in an executive suit and a knee-length skirt like most news correspondents would. She had a T-Shirt on and a bandana that kept her hair off her fairly tanned face. She was interviewing a very excited Frenchman, as informed by the sudden appearance of a box beneath the man's face.

"_Yes, Elena,_" he was saying to her in slightly accented English, "_the treasures are very, very intriguing and exquisite! They are dated from very early in the country's history, probably even earlier than any treasures ever to be uncovered!_" His face flushed further under the light as Elena nodded and asked him another question.

"_When will the auction take place?_"

"_Tomorrow night, Elena. I hope you can come!_"

"She won't, you horny snail-eater!" Nate shouted and threw presumably a piece of Doritos at the huge image of the smiling Frenchman. "Can you believe this; he's asking her out on a date, live!"

"Maybe you should do that before," I mumbled.

"What?"

"Looks like she's accepting the invitation," I added, pointing to the huge screen. Elena flashed a wide smile and nodded, to which Nate groaned aloud and howled.

"Your loss, Nate," I muttered. When he did not rebut, I looked up from my laptop screen. On the TV screen now was shown several items that looked very ancient. They flashed across the screen, stopping only a few seconds before going on to the next one. I assumed those were the items that would be the centre of attention tomorrow night.

He turned suddenly to me that I was caught unawares. "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Those things! The tripods!"

I caught a glimpse of a cameraman, but no tripods. "For once, Nate, explain what in the hell are you about?"

He grunted to himself, saying, "I hope this thing's recorded." He dove for the remote and pressed a few buttons. The whole scene paused before reversing itself. Nate then pressed another button and what he had been raving about froze in the screen, crystal clear and in high definition.

It was definitely an antique, older than anything I had ever seen, or handled, before – and I had handled a lot of antiques, believe you me. Made obviously from bronze – based on that unmistakable greenish patina – it was engraved with the ancient Chinese scripts similar to those we saw in Heather's photo.

"Oh God," Nate uttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Can it be...? That's _the_ tripod?"

"Can you _please_ make any sense right now?"

My sarcasm was wasted on him. He simply peered closer at the paused image of the bronze thingy – tripod, I guess. He placed one finger on the screen and traced the engravings slowly. As he whispered something under his breath, he turned to me. "Give me a piece of paper and a pen," he said.

I did, then watched in silence as his fingers became alive, drawing the image with remarkable likeliness. "There," he said as he carefully tore the sketch out of the paper in a square neat. He rose, went into his room and came out with his backpack. He rummaged through it, took out a book and after flipping through a lot of pages, he found an empty page where he pasted the sketch. That done, he thrust it back inside the backpack and beamed at me.

"I hear Paris is brilliant this time of year," he grinned at me. I flashed him an irritated frown.

-0X0-

"_B__ienvenue à Le Marais_," I spread my hands wide. Nate ignored me as he wolfed down his cheeseburger. Mine was only halfway through. The appetite of the man!

Wiping his lips, he groaned. "That was good, but I need another one. Waiter!" A woman stepped beside our table and Nate enthusiastically pointed at his empty plate. "Please, may I have one more?"

I told the waitress what Nate wanted in French, and gave him a snide look as he watched the waitress's perky butt. "What?" he asked. "Don't tell me you're jealous."

"Jealous I am not, Nate, but if you want to stare, at least do it discreetly."

"Hey, we're in France! I thought this is the City of Love!"

"City of Love, not the City of Unbridled Lust!"

"And yet there was a history of an orgy somewhere around here."

"Not the kind you'd like to join."

Nate sighed as the waitress arrived with his hamburger. "_Merci, mademoiselle,_" he said immaculately.

"I thought you don't speak French." I leant back and scouted the area while pretending to observe Nate.

"There're a lot of things you don't know about me," he replied as he prepared to take a bite. "For instance," he resumed, "the true reason we are here."

"You're chasing Elena," I said matter-of-factly, sipping my tea. Ah, Ceylon tea – a balm to the nerves. I sighed blissfully.

Nate did a double take on me. "That's the other reason," he hesitantly said. "The true reason is to see those tripods with my own eyes."

"I thought you gave up the idea already." I poured myself another cupful.

Nate's laughter boomed, drawing attention of several patrons in Cafe Charlot. Arguably the busiest cafe in the morning within this area, it attracted loyal patrons and tourists alike. It sat right across _Le Marche des Enfants Rouges*_, which right now was in full swing.

I gave him a pointed look so he might stop laughing. Still chuckling, he whipped out a map onto the table, almost tipping off the teapot.

I quickly lifted the said item from danger. "Hey-hey, watch my teapot."

"Oh, sorry, _grandma_."

Another pointed look, wasted. "You don't want to pay for these," I said, placing it back so that it effectively secured the map onto the table. "It could be older than your mobile phone."

With one thick finger Nate pointed at a spot on the map. "The open auction will take place here at eight this evening. Due to the nature of the artefacts that will be auctioned, the whole event is by invitation only."

"I guess we'll pickpocket someone who has the invitation and pretend we're them?"

"No such bravado: I already asked from Elena for the invitations. Besides, we won't be joining in the auction; we'll only be backstage. It's an open auction; prices can only go one way: Up."

"How quaint; English auction on French soil," I quipped.

Nate chuckled. "That it is."

"So you're going to see Elena tonight?"

A smile quickly flitted across his face, but not quick enough to escape my attention. I pretended not to notice, though. "Yeah, maybe. I mean, if I see her."

"You're going for those artefacts rather than her?" I rolled my eyes.

"Well – um, yeah!"

I took out my phone. "Call her now."

"What? No!" He pushed it away; I pushed it back. "C'mon, Gracie!"

My hand moved so quickly I could not even remember doing it afterwards: but there was my hand, twisting Nate's so hard under the table, he grunted and stepped on my toes. I snapped, quickly released my grip and awkwardly looked away. I did not even offer an apology.

Nate's confused look haunted me as we both walked on eggshells the rest of the day.

-0X0-

A knock on my door announced Nate's arrival. I was ready for the night. It was an evening dress of emerald green charmeuse with a V-neckline. Then Nate knocked again, more impatiently this time.

"Dammit, would you wait?" I shouted as I ran toward the door in my stilettos. Trust me; running in stilettos is more dangerous than running with scissors. I had a marvellously fashionable drag queen back in Holland to thank for teaching me the art of running in these practically health hazards.

I peered through the peephole and Nate's distorted face loomed. I opened the door and immediately went back to my dressing table, mumbling all the way.

"Goddamit, Nate, the auction doesn't start in an hour! If we're walking, we'd arrive in fifteen minutes! Can't you wait for a minute? I can't even find my earrings – did I drop it there?" He was silent outside, and at that moment I saw those earrings hidden beneath my makeup kit.

After putting them on and grabbing my clutch, I went out. Nate was still sitting on the main room. He lifted his head and his eyes widened as he looked at me.

"Well," I said, "c'mon! I'm ready!"

"Wait a minute: I want this look of yours etched in my memory," he said, almost whispering.

"Well, why don't you take a picture, you dumbass!"

"Aw, c'mon, Grace! I never saw you in a dress before," he said, offering his arm to me.

I stared at with one brow lifted. "Oh, such a quick change of pace: very gentlemanly of you." I accepted it and squeezed his arm. "I thought you prefer me NOT wearing a dress."

"No, I prefer you NOT wearing _anything _at all," he uttered as we went out of my room.

"Now you've reverted to a dumbass again."

-0X0-

"Well, dumbass has a new arm accessory!"

That was my first face-to-face meeting with Elena. To tell the truth, I was not so excited cast as an 'arm accessory' but I realised this was in her nature. (That would have to come later.) So I forced a smile and held out a hand as I introduce myself.

"Grace Dalton, how do you do?"

"Elena Fisher; devastated."

"Elena, please," Nate began.

"Shut up, dumbass," she shot at him with a forced smile. To me she continued: "Do you know how hard it is to come up with two last minute invitations?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm under the impression that you agreed to us coming over," I gently sidestepped the question.

Nate suddenly squeezed my arm and I turned to him to ask, but his expression turned everything suddenly as bright as day. I pulled away from his tightening grip, furious.

"You sold my name so you could get the invitations! You creep!"

"Couldn't say it better myself," Elena muttered.

"Wait, wait... Elena, I have to come here undetected, okay?" Nate pleaded as he deftly ushered us toward a rather private corner. The museum hall was darkened as a man went up and announced something in French.

"What does that have to do with selling my name? Do you think I want to be detected here, too?" I shot back.

Elena's eyebrows shot up toward her forehead. "Oh, so you haven't told her about the blackmail?" My head snapped in her direction. She shrugged, saying: "All he told me was he was being blackmailed for something that can be found among tonight's treasures."

As I turned to Nate for explanations, he said, "Now, Grace, listen with reason – I have to do this, okay, you won't –"

"Understand?" I had a hard time controlling myself from throwing myself on Nate and hitting him unconscious with my clutch. "What I don't understand is why you don't trust me, Nate. I thought we're partners."

"Nothing of the Chloe Frazer kind is it?" Nate massaged his assaulted forearm and groaned as my head again snapped at her direction. "I doubt it, though,' Elena added pointedly.

"Elena," I said in a tired voice as Nate tried to stand between us, my clutch hovering in front of her dangerously, "trust me when I say that I do not fuck your precious boyfriend. I don't know who this Chloe Frazer is, and I have not the least mind to. But Nate and I are partners, nothing more. So if you both will excuse me, I think I have to get some fresh air, and let me leave you two with your lovers' tiff!"

With that I pushed Nate aside and walked out of the hall as fast as I could without seeming to storm out. Nate stared after me and the last thing I noticed was the two of them quarrelling again.

-0X0-

I did not realise how long that had been, but now as I traversed the whole museum grounds, I heard somewhere a bell tolled the time at 9. I spied a tall row of columns down the path I was walking. The columns led back to the museum halls, and throughout my wanderings around the grounds, the security was more focused on the entrance tonight. There were guys posted about, but fewer than usual. It made a world of a difference.

"Sorry again," I heard Elena's voice through my communicator.

I swallowed my chuckle as I hid behind a column while a guard passed down the path. When he was out of an earshot I continued toward the museum halls. "Elena, there's nothing to be sorry about. It's just an act; we were acting." I sought the column nearest to the walls. "And really, if it makes you feel any better, I don't find Nate desirable."

"WHAT?" That was Nate.

"He just can't believe you're the only woman who can withstand his roguish charm," Elena said.

"What roguish charm?" I uttered a grunt as I tried to find crannies and nooks so I could put my fingers to lift myself up. "Being a total ass?"

"Excuse me!" Nate hoarsely whispered over our conversation, obviously furious with our chatter, "I'm right here!"

"You are? Already?"

I pulled myself up, finding a very comfortable nook to attach my fingers onto. I cleared the column and balanced myself atop it. Just one leap and I would be on the wall, where that drainpipe was leaning away. It was new, so it would not lean away further with my weight.

"That's fast," I breathed out as I leapt toward it and grabbed the metal pipe tightly. It did not move, and I saw no guards below or anywhere nearby.

"No – dammit, I mean I am right here, listening to you – you fishwives!"

"Wow, and I thought arm accessory was offensive," Elena said. I commenced climbing upward, which was not easy at all in an evening gown. I kept slipping and only my gloved grips stood between success and failure: I have Calico Hills to thank for. As I scaled those final inches and swung myself into the dark balcony, I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Grace, you're in position?" I heard Nate asked me.

"I can't believe I'm along with this plan; robbbing a museum," Elena muttered.

"We're not robbing; we're saving Sully." When Elena stayed quiet, he added pleadingly, "Elena, I have to, okay? They got Sully, and they want me to get this in exchange for Sully's life."

"Well," Elena whispered, "he did save me several times." Then she grunted. "Ah, who am I kidding here, I can't let Sully die, too. So, okay, you guys ready?"

I said yes, and so did Nate.

"Good," she muttered, "because if _these_ don't work, we have to go to Plan B."

"What's plan B?" Nate asked her. "Do we have plan B?"

Elena replied, "It involves you doing exactly what I'm about to do, so shut up already."

Nate fell silent, but shortly afterwards:

"Wait, when you say **these**, were you referring to _your_ –"

"Shut – up! _Hi!_" Elena hailed someone with too much enthusiasm, and I heard a man's voice in reply. "Oh, you must forgive me, for I must steal him away just for a moment, okay?"

"But the auction –" the man protested, but Elena quickly cut him.

"Will begin in half an hour's time! So plenty of time for us to hold the interview! Preferably somewhere – quieter?"

"I can't believe she actually uses that line," Nate chuckled.

I could actually hear the man hesitate, then Elena breathed a relieved sigh. Presumably the man nodded, and she continued: "Fantastic! What about the study upstairs? Yes?"

"Don't try too hard, Elena," I cautioned her. That hesitation was the first sign to watch out for. The target would pick up signs of deception, although unconsciously. "Let him decide."

"I mean," Elena whispered, "anywhere would be appropriate."

The woman was a fast learner. Nate cleared his throat, perhaps irritated.

"Are you in position, Nate?" I asked him, trying to remind him our job.

"What... yeah, yeah I am!"

"Good," I said. "Let her do her job."

Somehow, ten minutes later, Elena finally got her target to hold the interview in the study. In the balcony both of us were waiting. She became her reporter self, which I did not have to coach.

Looking at the time, I thought it would be a good time to obtain the key. "Now would be a good time to ask for a drink," I reminded Elena.

Elena did so with such grace, no hot-blooded man would deny her request. While the target was gone, she unlocked the door for us and we quickly entered. "Hurry," she whispered, "he's only two doors down!"

"Don't forget the fingerprint!" Nate whispered back as both of us sneaked out of the room into another room at the head of a flight of stairs.

We found that to be unlocked, and entered. Just then Elena spoke again, this time remarking the drink she was brought for, and quickly steered the conversation back to the auction, reminding the target that it was almost time already. "Let's have a toast for tonight, yes?"

"Yes!" the man joined enthusiastically. "To tonight's success – and beyond!"

Their glasses clinked: I heard Nate whispered "Yes!"

Then after more polite exchanges we heard the two of them walked just outside the room and down the stairs. Nate opened the door just a crack and nodded. We both went back to the study where the glasses were left.

"Elena," Nate asked, "which glass was yours?"

After a moment, Elena muttered, "I believe Monsieur Didier do not wear lipstick?"

I picked up the clean glass first before Elena finished her sentence. "Do you have to ask?"

Nate shrugged. "You never know with these Frenchmen. C'mon."

We ducked out of the room, heels tucked safely behind my dress. After descending into what seemed like a wine cellar, Nate paused in front of a massive wine rack that effectively became a second wall. It covered from one side of the room to another. The bottles glinted invitingly under the wan lighting.

In other words, one might hide anything behind it.

"Ah," Nate suddenly sighed. "Here we go."

"What – oh. That's very well-hidden." I felt my brows rose up to my hairline. It was pretty impressive, really. What was it, I hear you ask? It was the security laser that was used to open whatever that was behind this wine rack. The tell-tale red light appeared on Nate's outstretched forefinger and began moving, as if tracking it.

"Hurry, the glass." I gave it to him as soon as the light began a descent on his outstretched finger. Nate deftly replaced his hand with the glass. When it picked up the prints, it suddenly spread out as if to cover the whole hand print. We held our breaths as the laser painstakingly crept throughout the glass prints.

There was a click and the wine rack split open in the middle, opening toward us. Nate gave a sudden nervous laugh. "I didn't think that would work, honestly," he said as we walked toward the opening maw in the wall.

"Oh seriously? Like now you consider the possibilities?"

"Yeah," he said as we walked under a small doorway into a dark room that smelt clean and sterile despite its location. "Maybe, you know, the laser would only react to real human hand instead of cold glass. In that case we have to do two things: explain ourselves or run for it."

The lights were slowly turned on and the true nature of the room was revealed. A storage of sorts, it had aluminium surface everywhere, like a kitchen makeover gone mad. There were several display cases on the floor, and one of them contained what Nate had been looking for: the ancient Chinese tripods.

"I have to ask: Are they worth everything we've done so far?"

"You're such a sourpuss." Nate frowned in concentration as he plugged in the skeleton key decoder into the security panel. A beep and he leant back to see the result. Just as quick, another beep sounded. His brows shot up. "Holy shit, that's fast. What – oh my God, you have got to be kidding me."

I leant over and saw why. The code was 123456. "Should I start laughing?"

"No," Nate said as the glass case opened under his careful ministration. "Not yet, anyway." Out of nowhere a pair of rubber gloves appeared and he put them on just as fast.

On the now open glass case, there were five tripods, four on the side no bigger than my fists but the one in the middle was twice as large. Nate picked up the big one and turned it this way and that under the bright light. "This is authentic," he uttered after a long moment.

"Wait, so if these are the real ones, then the ones they display upstairs are –"

"Very good fakes, or close reproductions."

"That's not worrying to you?"

"No," Nate replied as he peered into it. "Museums do that all the time. Why would you display the real thing out there and leave it to the dangers of moisture, carbon dioxide from the tourists leaning too close, sweaty fingers and yes, thieves like us?"

I shrugged. "Good point." I dug into my clutch and took out a hip flask. I drank some of its contents. "Oh, like you don't need a pick-me-up now and then," I shot at him when I noticed his glare.

"I can't believe this," he said.

"Oh, please, Nate!"

"No, not you – this! Look here." He pointed to a segment of etchings upon the tripod surface. Out of nowhere he had a magnifying glass and placed it over the said segment. "It says 'this _ding_ is for Da Yu, saviour of the Qin'."

"I thought you can't read these things," I remarked.

"After a week I can," Nate said, this time with a slight drop in his tone. "Also, this is not a real tripod."

"What?"

Nate was looking into the tripod now, putting the mouth over one eye. "I should rephrase that: This is not _the_ real tripod. This is a map."

"Not just any map, I hope," I breathed, putting away the hip flask.

"No ma'am, it's _the_ map. The map of the _true tripod_." Nate shook his head. "This is why they want me to steal this. It's why they took Sully; they know I won't be able to say no. They want the map that will show them the way to the tripod. Or tripods, in this case."

"So, do we take them now or mull over the thought until, I don't know, until the security realises we're here?"

Nate's worried expression broke into something I'd classify as a cat's smile.

x0x

To be continued...


End file.
